


Be Brave

by infradead



Category: Destiny (Video Game)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Friends to Lovers, Light-Hearted, Mutual Pining, Reader-Insert, Reminiscing, Resurrection, Robot/Human Relationships, Spoilers, Titan!Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-12-24 10:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12010608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infradead/pseuds/infradead
Summary: And go forth. Even if he'll always be a lone wolf and you'll be another lone sentry... you'll still have him.Because as a Guardian, there may never always be a light to call your own.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who has to wait till 11 pm for this game to launch? This bitch.
> 
> Destiny 1, it's been a hell of a ride. Full of blood, sweat, tears, and grind upon grind upon _grind_. Hats off. I've poured too many hours into this game, spent way too much time nightfalling, raiding, and collecting exotics and grimroire and loot that it's good to say we can _finally_ start over fresh again.
> 
> Also I usually see Hunters being shipped with Cayde-6 and as much as I love that, like--Titans tho? Cayde would probably have a blast poking fun with them. Also flexing contests. And protecting him with a sentinel shield when he's being reckless. And him using your butt flag as a hand towel. Tank for Cayde-6, babes.
> 
> More to come soon!

You miss him.

Though, arguably, one doesn’t have to do much to miss the Hunter Vanguard, despite contrary to popular belief. 

You miss the stupid intercom slip-ups, the low-fives in passing when you brush past him to report in to Zavala--and no matter how stealthily you’d both manage the deed, neither of you could ignore Ikora’s rolling eyes. How he’d taunt you into bets for the Crucible and watch all his glimmer flush down into Shaxx’s pockets because _Titans_.

Sometimes he’d even come around and you’d feel a tug at your renowned butt towel, wiping his supposedly grease-stained hands into the fabric while thanking you for always carrying one around for his needs.

That was the day Cayde-6 almost metamorphosed into Cayde-7, and to this day you still wonder if he’d ever found the right replacement parts for that hinge on his dented jaw.

But you’d both been good sports about the entire ordeal, even if it meant a wounded pride every time he’d bound past the Crucible handler (“ _You been keeping that jaw well-oiled, Hunter?”_ ), or even a quietly smug Zavala (“ _None of my Titans have been bothering you, have they, Cayde?_ ”), and much to Cayde’s surprise, the Iron Lord _Saladin_.

 _If it’s a punch you need thrown,_ Saladin had mused, standing sentry as ever, _you best know who to steer clear from._

You see these moments across the destruction of your home, of watching the Tower you’d found safety and shelter and _family_ turn to blazes from uncontrollable pyres. It’s not the warmth of the Traveler’s light, not of Cayde’s cloak brushing against the side of your arm as you lazily chat over duties and long days out on the frontier. 

Pockets of dirt shower and pelt your victory regalia as you glance at the spot you’d both preferred, the balcony leading to the hallway of New Monarchy and the Speaker. How you’d both munch on post-ramen shop snacks and crumble them up to feed the already-fattened pigeons on the grass and rail, naming your favorites (which, to be fair, were _all_ of them) as you fawned over the eager things.

Flames swallow what’s now left of the front lawn, _the Vault full of all of your loot_ , and there’s something driving you harder than dying, again and again and again only to feel the rush of resurrection. It’s different than diving into a raid, exploring the depths of the unknown and pit falling into a darkness that you may never hope to leave the same you’d came through. 

From facing an insurmountable danger straight through your eyes--passing between past and present through Atheon’s Vault of Glass, to the throne room of the Taken King Oryx himself. You’ve been through the mill, have died only to rise to your Ghost again--and always, _always_ have you returned here, to your once untouched home with thoughts of safety and Cayde-6.

Seeing the crumbled stairwell leading to the Vanguards, and you _miss_ him even more than that chunk of debris smashing apart the Vaults full of your hard-earned score.

And you know then, time and time again always, that you have a duty foremost above all: to protect and defend as the sentry you know you are, mentored and guided by legends like Saint-14, Commander Zavala, Lord Shaxx and Lord Saladin. To put yourself first in front of the line of fire, to uphold what the Titans had built and forever sworn to safeguard.

There’s bittersweet memories of picking up the pieces left by your predecessors. Like Rezyl Azzir, Kabr, Saint-14, Jolder and Radegast, legendary heroes all in their own rights and a heavy weight left to burden upon you and your own fellow sentries. It’s _you_ who should’ve been the first to the call, _you_ who should have been able to prevent it from happening in the first place.

 _And this is how I allow their memory to live?_ You wonder, taking shelter from hailing bullets, gunfire, all around explosions that would have otherwise been another story to share around drinks and a roaring fire pit. _It’s all gone. The last city on earth will be gone._

And though the crumbling home beneath you may be nothing but physical, shaped into thoughtlessly immovable concrete, a part of you hopes that the civilians, the Vanguards, your fellow Guardians can escape with their lives intact and their Ghosts safely secured in tow.

This physical realm may soon be gone, but rising from the dead is a concept ages old.

Cayde’s words come dancing around one last time. The last time you had been able to see him after your own fall from the Tower, rushing wind and an inactive Ghost on neither standby nor speech spiraling through the air, and you know well enough that this death will be a hard and painful one.

You only hope the last thing you hear before you hit the ground is _guardian down,_ but you doubt it’s any better than Cayde’s final complaint about the destruction of your favorite ramen shop.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d only been reset five times, though from what he’s told you he does remember some fragments of his past--and should the time ever come for his next reset, you hope he won’t forget the memories you’ve shared endlessly with one another.

As it turns out, dying is just part of the routine job.

You’ve swapped stories back and forth among countless Guardians of the worst deaths you’ve experienced, ranging from flat-out jokes to flat-out _painful_. And you’ve all been caught by that stray final bullet, given enough time you would’ve made it behind cover and fate decided to see its twisted ways on you. Used each other as literal meat shields to tank and laughed off the materialization of your dissipating forms on standby.

Did stupid things like dance on the edge of the railing on the Tower _because I’ve got new dance moves, by the way, who’s John Travolta and what’s Greased Lightning?_... only to be shoved off by a fellow prankster to the ground below.

It shouldn’t hurt if you’ve done it so many times to each other, right?

But there’s no active Ghost on standby for resurrection, no cute little robot to goad you to _let’s not do that thing_ and unsuccessfully _never mind, you’re gonna go do the thing_.

Even for all that cushion and padding and rubber that made up your plated armor, the crack on impact as you tumbled through debris and concrete is downright _terrifying_ because you remember every spurring detail of it.

Every resurrection only brandishes a momentary fleet of gasping breaths, but rarely ever pain. You’ve been bruised, surely--you still remember when Hawthorne had helped you pull your thick plating apart and stared at the grotesque viscera that she’d eloquently pointed out as your ribs, but your imminent death wasn’t anything to foresee under her watch.

You wonder how Cayde would take to this news, all this nasty business of you bleeding all over the refugee beddings and blankets and mumbling about your holy Light like a madman.

Probably a quip along the lines of _wait, you actually have skin underneath all that padding?_ followed by him profusely apologizing to you while dodging flaming fists to the face, laughing all the way.

Everything about him can be replaced without much thought, a reason you’re sure is why he’s so reckless at all. Losing an arm, a leg doesn’t matter much to him when the spare parts can come prepared the next day. He was created, designed by humanity with man certainly in mind, down to his conscious humor and appetite for earthly cuisine.

He’d only been reset five times, though from what he’s told you he does remember some fragments of his past--and you hope, embarrassingly enough, that should the time ever come (and it _won’t_ , you’re firm to believe) for his next reset, he won’t forget the memories you’ve shared endlessly with one another.

Would he remember the first time you’d both gone toe-to-toe with one another in the Crucible--the time you’d first met?

The coincidental meetings at the spicy ramen shop after a hard day, what would start at first a playful tease of him poking fun that he’s convinced you’re infatuated with him?

Him casually crumpling your mark up like a dishrag hanging on a handrail, and you retaliating each time by yanking his hood over his head?

And then there are quiet ones, but no less memorable--of him coming to your apartment door, trying to lighten the mood after hearing that you’d be gone on a long mission. Of you coming to _his_ room after you’d decked him in the face, cradling his jaw with the gentleness contrarily held to Titans, and assessing the damage yourself, uttering apology after apology in the stillness of the evening sun.

Robot or not, he _was_ designed with humanity in mind, and the metal and shifted plating that makes up his face, his body, his limbs radiate welcoming _warmth_.

Especially now, saddled on the Farm, you remember the times of you and him out in the field together, hunkering down shoulder-to-shoulder beneath the starlit sky and taking shifts between one another. For all of his less than gentlemanly ways, he’d certainly amounted to one when he’d dragged over his cloak from behind and wrapped it around your shoulders in your slumber. He’d claimed it was for survival purposes, though you suspect he’s more than curious to see what a Titan would look like with a good old fashion cape.

There’s so much of him that you haven’t forgotten, you seem to miss the possibility that he may not be alive at all, with what the Traveler’s Light now robbed of all Guardians but you. And maybe you don’t seem to believe that anything could kill him in the first place, that you’ll always be the one to raise the shield in his defense, and he the one to reap the rewards with a flashy twist of his Ace of Spades and a spark of consecutive flaming shots.

No, he’s far more resourceful than that, being left to die alone in some picterquese, Vex-infested planet while confined in Vex traps. Though the inevitability of your arrival to save his ass comes more of an overloaded shock to him than it does for you, with three perfect steps in mind when one presumes their best friend was killed by the hands of the enemy.

Step one: steal Vex teleporter.  
Step two: teleport to Ghaul.  
And step three: blow Ghaul's brains out, thus avenging the death of said best friend killed by the hands of the enemy.

Except you’re making his plan progress rather _paradoxically_ , he realizes upon your perfectly timed arrival, that you’re thoroughly safe, alive, and ready to raise your shield for him time and time again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops sorry for the delayed update but i'm officially closing the gap towards maxing out the power level in time to hopefully be raid-ready next week.
> 
> slow build up, but definitely cayde interaction next chapter! <33 thanks for the love and kudos, cuties.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s the literal joker and the ace in in the hole--he’d always been regarded as the frontier’s best and a lone wolf at heart. Yet helmet on or not, he can somehow _feel_ the disappointment, the hurt radiating from your very Light that he seems flippant about your return.

Out of all the reuniting words Cayde-6 could have chosen, he opts for the less than eloquent one.

“You--wait, you’re _not_ dead?”

Suspended mid-air in some clumsy fashion much unlike his Hunter title, those bright cyan bulbs flicker and widen to accommodate rapidly shifting plates--a simulation of raised eyebrows, but that’s not the only indication of his visible shock. The hinge on his jaw displaces itself just a fraction of a second and sets itself right soon after, the plating buffed out instead of replaced altogether. 

By then you have your answer; it’s definitely the same face you’d introduced to with a swift fist. A momentary pang of guilt hits you because that _can’t_ be comfortable for his framework. Why didn’t he just switch out his parts back when he actually _could?_

“Ouch,” you feign a wound against your heart, rifle barrel in hand as you steady the butt end against the floor with a casual flair. You consider rocket jumping point blank just to prove your point but decide against it--seeing the horror on his face would be worth the resurrection, though. “Could’ve told me sooner. Kind of too late to stay dead now.”

So you still have your Light, much to both his relief and disbelief. And it’s proven, albeit with frequent difficulty as he teleports in between a multitude of varying Vex dimensions that yes, you’re not a Lightless Guardian at all but one that he believes he’d never lost in the first place. You, ever the gallant protector; the same one who’s both vaporized him into dust with a Fist of Havoc and smashed his face in with a crushing shoulder charge around a sharp turning corner.

Is it wrong that he _missed_ being your occasional punching bag? Pain isn’t a foreign concept to him at all but watching you vaporize the Vex taking him hostage is bringing back rather fond memories that he hopes soon to revisit. But it serves as a reminder to him that for all his adamant protection of you (and by “protection” he means killing everything as swiftly as possible), he hadn’t exactly gone _back_ to confirm if you were dead or not.

Careless in retrospect, certainly, but it’s not much unlike him to be. It’s not like he _wants_ to let you know that he’d been worried to death that you’d been one of the many Lightless Guardians who fell during the Tower siege; for all of your gentle nature, he seems to panic at the idea of you seeing him vulnerable.

What kind of Vanguard would he be to even show weakness at all?

But you don’t seem to care of that, only when he brushes past you to return back whence you came. He’s the literal joker and the ace in in the hole--he’d always been regarded as the frontier’s best and a lone wolf at heart. Yet helmet on or not, he can somehow _feel_ the disappointment, the hurt radiating from your very Light that he seems flippant about your return.

No, you didn’t jump light-years just to be brushed away from your best friend, the gun to your shield--your fingers wrap around his forearm and it successfully keeps him from walking away any further, and to your relief he does stay put.

Anyone else, and you’re sure he would have vanished in smoke at the mere _idea_ of wanting to make him stop for nothing.

“We match now,” you quietly wonder, and he’s confused. You let him go and he stays where he is, stepping back only to watch as you pull your helmet free.

He has no lungs, doesn’t breathe the same way as you do, but the Exo equivalent is nonetheless _breathless_.

Cayde’s chuckle is airy, and that missing part of him feels like home. He doesn’t think when he reaches over, pinching the flesh of your cheek beneath that healing scar.

“That we do, Guardian,” he murmurs in wonder, and though he wants to be angry because it’d meant you’d been hurt, he can’t help but admire that easy smile on your own face. He wonders how you aren’t sharing meditation time with the Warlocks and Ikora, patient behind the long-range engagement like his Hunters; besides your strength, how do you ever share anything with the boisterous Shaxx or the by-the-book Zavala?

“I, uh,” he begins so smoothly, scratching the back of his head even though he can’t feel the itch at all. Whoever he’d originally been, you’ve always loved that his mannerisms aren’t always clear cut or absolute. It’s _cute_. “Between you and me, I’m really glad you made it, though.”

Truthfully he’d prepared a better speech in mind, like _I don’t know what I’d do without my better, more responsible half_. He knows you deserve these words, and for having no tongue he surely has it twisted.

“Just don’t go spreading it around,” he hastily adds, almost like a warning. “Can’t have the other Guardians thinking I’m playing favorites.”

 _But you **do**_ , you nearly cry out, recalling the time he’d told you he’d placed all his bets against your opposing team during Iron Banner, only to come home with an untold amount of glimmer for a match you’re _certain_ your team had won. 

Or when he couldn’t shut the _hell_ up for two weeks, parading around the Tower and boasting that your fireteam had met Oryx face to face in his Throne Room and beat him to a pulp. An over exaggeration on his part, of course. You remember he’d taken you out for some spicy ramen to celebrate and casually admitted that he’d left his wallet back in your kitchen.

Well, and then there’s _that_ ; the fact that he feels comfortable enough to leave his belongings where you live. Comfortable enough to even let you touch his precious cape. Comfortable enough to put his guard down for you.

Like so many things between you and him, you’ve learned long ago to read between the lines; Cayde-6 never does anything without a reason, although he seems steadfast in believing that none is ever needed at all.

“I’ll try not to,” you promise, reaching up to swat away his hand when his next action catches you off guard. Your fingers touch your cheek and his own palm is gently wrapped around your wrist, keeping you there, keeping you close to his towering frame.

He takes a step forward, closer than should be considered just common battlefield familiarity; with that look in his eyes, he seems to almost revere you with something soft, grateful.

“You _won’t_ ,” he emphasizes and corrects. Like he’s redirected the surefire confidence he knows he has and uses that as his momentum when your eyes widen in wonder. “I’ve got a reputation to keep, y’know.”

You laugh aloud, pushing against his chest--his hand is still glued to that same wrist even when you do it. “ _Reputation?_ You should hear what the Kinderguardians have to say about you and me.”

Those golden lights in his cheeks flare, casually playing it off. “Well, I’m sure the grapevine is a pleasant place to be…”

“You’re the king of the grapevine, Cayde. I know you started that rumor about Shaxx and how he lost his horn to--”

“Ah-ah-ah, yeah, let’s _not_ revisit that.”

And he’s dancing around what he can’t ever seem to find the courage to do, always leaving it up to you and your nature even when it’s just you and him face-to-face. There’s no resistance when you reach up as best you can around your armor, helmet clattering to the floor, and you’re unsure as to who is pulling the other forward with what your face against his shoulder and all. You’re certain you can’t be warm against him, with all this plating in comparison to his leather and fashionable cloth, but he doesn’t seem to mind or care.

Cayde sighs, arms wrapped around the familiarity he knows and feels certain, content that you’re safe now. “I am touch-starved right now, I gotta say, this is great.”

“I could always punch you?” comes your muffled offer.

He winces at the thought, honored to have witnessed firsthand of you and Shaxx’s mannerisms. _Let’s trade punches, Titan. I’ll even let you go first._ He would never be able to understand all of the headbutting and shoulder charging and _butt towels_ culture.

“Maybe later…” 

“Alright, then let go of me.”

His arms don’t budge an inch from trapping you in, and he’s much aware that you could overpower him in close quarters at any moment. Though pushing his luck had always been his forte, he feels the odds are in his favor. 

“Nah. I like you here. Safe and sound. No megalomaniac Cabal to worry about. No duties to fulfill. It’s almost _peaceful_ , y’know?”

Like he’d ever know the word _peace_. You roll your eyes. “This place sucks. Can we get back to the Farm already? I’m starving.”

“The _what?_ Like… with animals?” He suddenly seems hopeful. “…Chickens?”

“ _Yes_ ,” you say in exasperation while sagging into his chest. Maybe the extra weight will deter him, but he seems to _welcome_ the action. “Maybe if you’re lucky you can adopt one. Now can we please go?”

That’s all he needs to get a rushing head start to your ship, of course, with you following behind him and blasting the quickness of Hunters, unknown to both your Ghosts sharing knowing looks with one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh i've always been more partial to pve in destiny, and the only time i'm ever obligated to do crucible or iron banner is the promise of swank looking gear, but like... shaxx? shaxx has always been my #1 titan crush... i am obligated and forced to do crucible because i do it for him...
> 
> anyways point is, if i wrote a shaxx fic would anyone be interested in that or like yeah jfiosafjaso
> 
> i'm surprised many of you are enjoying this btw! <33 lovely comments and kudos as ever. hope you guys are enjoying the game too! ;)


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first you never understood his need for deflective humor, his foremost shield of defense to prevent any weaknesses from being purveyed. And to be frank, it was even _annoying_ at first to understand. But you do see some truth in them, how little it may be, and try it for yourself.

Well, chicken adoption would have to wait--according to Cayde, being Lightless for so long has put a strain even on him.

Camping out on Nessus isn’t exactly something you had in mind, and he isn’t planning on going with you to Io to search for Ikora, the missing third of the Vanguard. Much to his dismay anyways; you know he would be at your side in a heartbeat if he could, but you were vehement against it. Him dying now isn’t the idea when you’re the literal meat shield here. Plus having both Ikora _and_ Zavala disappointed in you wouldn’t exactly put you in good graces with the Vanguards.

After cutting through questionable foliage and scanning for anything remotely edible that wouldn’t slaughter your insides, you and Cayde settled on a spot overlooking the cliffs of Nessus. It’s secluded, a good sniper’s perch and you have a clear view from any oncoming danger at least. The survivalist in him knows he shouldn’t make a fire but he does so anyways--not for his sake, but for yours. The nights on Nessus are generally mild for an Exo but you’re only human after all.

Ghost huddles comfortably in your waiting palm where you sit by the crackling kindle, bringing him closer to the warmth of your chest. Rations and provisions had been transmatted from your ship earlier on, enough for the night though you both know that these fires will be snuffed out come dawn. Cayde studies you casually from across the campsite, keeping stock on the few belongings he has left while collecting more kindling for the fire, unaware of his Ghost hovering over his shoulder.

He lets out a choked sound when his Ghost speaks. “She’s been hurt.”

There’s a curse waiting somewhere in his mouth but he instead offers his Ghost a questionable look, returning back to his gathering. “What, you mean her face? Looks cool if you ask me. Facial scars are all the rage in character creation, I heard, especially that thing with the eyebrow and--”

“ _No_ ,” his Ghost emphasizes, shaking himself wildly. “I mean-- _badly_. Her Ghost sent me the damage reports and she sustained heavy abdominal bleeding, a minor concussion and several broken ribs.”

Okay, _now_ he seems more panicked, bewildered, whispering with haste like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands suddenly, “I don’t--I don’t know what that means?!”

“What are you two gossipmongers going on about?” you call from the campfire, shooting them a curious smile. Well, you _seem_ okay now, wherever that abdominal bleeding is coming from anyways. “I don’t bite, come sit by the fire.”

Cayde’s Ghost is the first to hover closer despite his Guardian’s protest for an explanation, but soon enough he finds himself seated on some makeshift bedding across the fire from yours. Something’s being roasted over the crackling flames and he realizes that you’re toasting marshmallows.

He strokes his chin, not particularly an expert on human diet anymore. “...Is that gonna sustain you?”

You prod at the burnt edge of the toasty goop. “Says the guy who eats noodles religiously. I heard in the Golden Age, these scholars would dine on _nothing_ but ramen every day to survive their studies. And not even the good kind! Crazy what we think was _actually_ … Hey, you okay?”

He doesn’t seem to realize that he’d been spacing out your way, not exactly engaged in the conversation nor seeming like he’d been paying attention at all. Pft. You? Being worried about _him?_ I mean, permadeath is totally on right now but--

“Cayde?” comes your worried tone again.

With haste he clears his throat, appearing buoyant and casual as ever. “Yeah!” he replies a little too quickly, a little too vigorously with a reassuring thumbs up. “Why wouldn’t I be?! I should--I should be asking _you_ that, right? I mean _I’m_ not the one who… y’know… fell off from the top of the Tower or anything…”

At that, your eyes narrow into slits and your Ghost’s lense averts elsewhere, Cayde’s strained laugh coming across the fire. Ghost is still in your palm and cries out softly when you prod his side with a knowing look.

“You,” another accusing prod, “talk too much.”

Cayde clears his voice, motioning towards your form. His voice has a softer quality to it, gentler even. “So… is it true then? About what happened?”

That pain is still fresh in your mind whether you want it to be or not. Out in the wilderness, all Guardians have died at least once, but no one ever remembers the pain that accompanies it. If you’d landed on your neck, severed something in your spine you’re sure you wouldn’t have made it at all, the ceremonial regalia surprisingly tanking most of the damage from that certain death.

A breezy sigh is your answer, slipping the marshmallow between rationed chocolate and graham crackers. “Yeah. It was… _not_ pretty. Do Exos vomit? I’m sure you would’ve if you saw how my ribs looked _outside_ of my gut.”

He takes in a deep breath--a human habit he can’t seem to shake--before he asks his next question. “Can I see?”

You say nothing at first, s’mores left on your plate and he lifts his eyes up to gauge your reaction. If you say no he’ll understand completely and drop it altogether--you can’t exactly get the replacement parts he can, and human body functions can only repair so much of any extensive damage. Scars, in other words; something he seems to bear only if he buffs out old scratches. 

Instead he sees you drop your Ghost into your lap, palm softly prodding against the dark suit of your shedded armor, right against your belly.

“I should be okay,” you reassure him, though even you don’t know whether you really are unless you pull the shirt up and see. “I think so.”

To make sure you’re actually not dying anytime in the near future you peel up the tight, snug fabric, examining the discoloration and--yes, those are definitely scars where ribs had blossomed through.

“Geez _Louise_ …”

You look up, Cayde’s plates shifting to widen his eyes in what you understand as an Exo’s disbelief. Terror? Abject horror, maybe? Without the blood it looks semi-tolerable compared to when you’d been trying to press it all together like it was that easy to begin with.

His palm covers his mouth in genuine shock. “You actually have _skin_ underneath all that padding?!”

There is no possible way he can duck fast enough to dodge the plate of gooey s'mores launching across the campfire at his face, and he’s full body _losing it_ to laughter.

It’s contagious, no matter how mad you try to build yourself up to be at him--in another minute your frown breaks and you’re stifling your own chuckle, pulling your shirt back down. Even if Ghost couldn’t heal it entirely it serves as a reminder, one that you can’t ever be too careless and that Cayde would find some way to lighten the mood as ever. No, you can’t be mad at him for long--not when you’ve been fated companions ever since that first clash together in the field.

He uses humor as a tool of deflection, a way to keep calm despite the literal shitstorm that awaits. You get it--him and many others do it too, but even you know when it’s too stressful to bear. Someone has to keep the positive energy flowing--someone has to teleport to Ghaul and blow his brains out. No one’s going to get results sitting around waiting for the sun to blow up, right?

At first you never understood his need for deflective humor, his foremost shield of defense to prevent any weaknesses from being purveyed. And to be frank, it was even _annoying_ at first to understand. But you do see some truth in them, how little it may be, and try it for yourself, drawing your knees to your chest by the warmth of the fire.

“I heard an old Golden Age tale about a war among stars,” you begin in wonder, “and something that could destroy planets and suns called the _Death Star_ …”

Cayde’s cheeks glimmer gold as his jaw snaps open. “Wait, wait, wait, you’re telling _me_ \--” His palms come together, emphasizing his point with his redirecting fingers poised together. “--that Gary’s _Almighty_ superweapon… is a rip off on this war of stars?”

“Dude, _right?_ ”

And for the next hour you both find yourselves roasting Ghaul instead of marshmallows, sharing stories of the Golden Age neither of you seem to remember but many of your mentors still bittersweet over. It’s deep into the aurora-like glow of Nessus’s sky and the blazing pyre warming you do you feel that first wave of sleep, rubbing an eye as Cayde remains unfazed.

Odd--you recall _him_ wanting to set up camp because he needed the rest?

“Ghost?” Cayde calls, watching you carefully. “You got the first watch?”

Your Ghost complies, albeit tiredly himself as you wrap your blanket securely around your shoulders. And though Cayde doesn’t need one of his own, you can’t help but feel guilty--you weren’t exactly anticipating camp for two and hadn’t packed nearly enough for that, but Cayde seems to have other alternatives in mind.

He’s already making his way over, knowing that you won’t be suffering from frostbite or any ailment come morning. Survival exercises. Spending enough days and nights out on the frontier with him has made this customary--he’s fitting himself snugly behind your back, knitted blanket covering you both this time as you face the shifting shapes of fire. And though the blaze you’ve both made is comforting, nothing compares, really, to the warmth he radiates around you now.

Without much consideration of your actions, you snuggle back into his chest, feeling safer with the knowledge of his arm laid against your side and fingertips brushing your belly.

He doesn’t say anything at first, but when he does you can hear the amused tone in his voice. “Comfy?”

You yawn, nodding in content. “Very. Not for a long time.”

That he can agree with--and he doesn’t fall to slumber until he hears the first soft breaths of yours, trying to memorize the heat you give off like a furnace, this war of stars in the Golden Age, the soft ridges of the scar he can feel beneath the belly of your shirt.

He’d hate to ever forget a moment of this in any future that holds for him, and for the first time since the Tower siege he sleeps dreamlessly.


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re leaving,” he points out the obvious, uncharacteristically more silent than usual.
> 
> You smile to ease his nervousness. “I’m leaving.”
> 
> “Well, uh.” The golden glow of his cheeks are just perfect. “Make it back in time for dinner?”

By morning he feels well rested, rejuvenated, and suspiciously like the small spoon.

Not the first time this has happened; it’s memorable only to him because he’d been unsuccessful every time he tried to break free from your sleepy grasp, and for a fearful moment he’s terrified you might German suplex him in your slumber if he struggled anymore than need be. Helplessly caged around your arms, Cayde has little choice but to lay there until you stir on your own--he knows better than to wake a giant--and allows you to do as you please.

Without the armor you’re pleasantly pliant, softer than he remembers, and best of all-- _warm_.

They say Exos don’t need to worry so much about external temperatures, but even he can’t forget how comfortable, safe he feels like this with you. On leisure days on the Tower when he found time between his Vanguard duties and you’re not staring off into the horizon from the wall, you’d both indulge in quality time with cards and snacks--all in your pajamas. Or if you both felt like going out, drinks would usually be on his tab while you got dinner at the ramen shop.

Bemoaning the tragedy, he knows he’ll miss having that no-nonsense worry that he’s so accustomed and steeped in. Sure, the other Vanguards would lecture and stern him of his less-than pleasant duties, and sometimes you’d give him a look for trying to ditch Ikora and Zavala by hiding beneath your daybed (“ _Can you stop squatting underneath my furniture?_ ”) but even _that_ was better than having to deal with the situation at hand.

You mumble something against his back, cheek pressed against the fabric of his cape. He barely takes in a breath and your palm against his stomach keeps him disciplined and in place.

“Good morning to the captain, and good morning to the Cayde-6 Unit!”

Cayde’s body jolts at the joyous intrusion of Failsafe slipping into the comms; your arms octopus and fasten around his form even tighter, murmuring to yourself in your sleep. Panicked that you might awaken in poor spirits, Cayde’s terrified and hurried shushes seem louder than the intended results he wants.

“Can you--can you _not_ be so loud right now, yeah?” he hisses, as if Failsafe is oblivious to his current predicament of possibly turning into a Titan stress ball. “Don’t wake the giant, Failsafe,” he whispers, _fearful_ even. “Whatever you do… _don’t_.”

“To my understanding of the Cayde-6 Unit,” Failsafe smartly, politely proclaims without lowering her voice, “you _planned_ for this situation to happen!”

And her so-called evil twin is ever present. “ **Ugh. PDA. Gross**.”

He doesn’t know why he even tries to keep them from lowering their voices when his own shushes are just as loud, yet you continue to drift peacefully in your sleep somehow, curled against him like some feline with a favorite toy.

“It would appear that the Cayde-6 Unit is once again trapped!” Failsafe points out with a helpful tone. “Are you willing to listen and adhere to my advice or shall I leave you to more poor decision making?”

“ **Good riddance, but nobody asked me**.”

“If I get split in half I know who _exactly_ to blame,” Cayde mumbles, boneless in your arms. Somewhere in dreamland, you must be saving puppies or shoulder charging Valus Ta’aurc in the crotch for the umpteenpth time as the final killing blow, snuggling against his shoulder with a content sigh.

Well… it’s definitely an upgrade from being stuck in a teleportation loop.

 

 

Seeing the reunited Vanguard together again feels exactly what home has always been like. Even if the setting isn’t exactly neon Suros, Omolon or Häkke signs glowing in the nightlight of the Tower, it’s as safe a haven when you’ve got your mentors shooting the shit and having something to worry about again.

You love hearing Cayde shout across the barn to Zavala and reassuring the Awoken countless of times that he’s okay, he’s still here and hasn’t vanished off, much to your relief. You love hearing the booming, uproarious Shaxx down below goading the others to join up in the Crucible, Ikora’s philosophy lessons to meditate the mind, Tyra busy studying her engrams to decrypt. 

It’s a shambled life but the people who matter are still here, still striving to do what they’ve always done to return some sense of normalcy to your world… even if you know everyone’s only doing what they do now because they’re stressed beyond belief.

Lazing in the grass on the outskirts of the Farm, you watch Cayde throw another jab Zavala’s way. Probably him trying to prod the poor Titan Vanguard to admit the beautiful words along the lines of “I need” and “your help” and “Cayde-6” if Zavala’s disgruntled expression is anything to go over. Sure, it warms your heart seeing them reunited, but you know by tomorrow morning you’re going to be off to do your Guardian thing and that whilst being the good noodle and continuing success story of the Vanguard.

Also known as _Operation: Throw A Big Ass Wrench in Ghaul’s Death Star Rip-Off™_ much to Zavala’s hidden dismay, but it _is_ more or less the actual plan of attack.

Still--you’d _just_ gotten them all back, gotten _Cayde_ back, and it still doesn’t feel like enough time is being spent properly on much of anything. The moment you’d both set foot on the Farm (“ _Point me to the chickens, I was **promised** chickens, Guardian_ ”) he was already wrangled and taken from your grasp, whisked away by a relieved Zavala to attend to his beloved Vanguard duties. Aside from the few moments of passing, he’s been quite the busy bee for once, mapping his findings on charted worlds.

Ikora had gently taken you aside and poured her wisdom on you to relax and ground yourself. You never seem to give her credit where it’s due but she deserves it all--she’s been around for so long, can telltale your emotions before you can grasp them yourself.

“You’re pushing your limit, Guardian,” she had pointed out, motherly in every aspect. “Relax your mind. Ground yourself to this earth. Your brush with death was not easy to overcome and continues to distress you to this moment. Center yourself; we need you at your best.”

So you try, skipping rocks against the gentle perimeter of the stream, punching anything inanimate within range (and getting remarks from Shaxx to redirect them at him instead), even sitting down on your folded knees to meditate the way the Warlocks do. 

If any of them work you can’t attest to it, laying on your back against the outgrown grass with armor pieces strewn on the lawn, listening to the gentle rush of water from the stream nearby and the soft rustle of leaves against leaves. It’s definitely more _earth_ than you’re used to--walls, barriers, something of concrete _protection_ was your area. You’re terrified that the Cabal may find you out here, might attack the Lightless civilians who have lived away from the Last City all this time. 

Instead of centering yourself, you’re only bringing further distraught and ruin by _overthinking_. As much as it’s fun and games, having the Solar System’s predominant star blown to pieces isn’t exactly the way you wanted things to end, dying before you’d had the chance to fulfill your promises.

Especially if you couldn’t admit to Cayde that you’ve lo--

“Heeey! What’s up?”

A brilliant-gold horn pierces the cloud you’re fixated on watching, gazing up at the upside-down face of the man on your mind. Blue bulbs flicker in bright humor--someone’s obviously in good spirits--while you blink owlishly back up at him.

He sighs in exasperation, hands holding something behind his back. “Ugh. You’re _supposed_ to say ‘chicken butt,’ it would’ve made this so much easier!”

“Okay, do-over.”

“What’s uuup?” he sing-songs, and you’re actually a smidge _terrified_ that he’s got something horrible behind his back. The last time he’d done something like this you ended up scrubbing sparrow motor oil out of your beautiful butt towel for five hours.

“Uh. Chicken butt?”

You _really_ don’t expect one to be shoved in your face.

“I want you to meet,” Cayde announces proudly, “our new child. Colonel.”

“…Like Colonel Sanders?”

“Uh--! Wh-what! No! Not at all, that’s… that’s just _so_ unoriginal! Look, point is-- _chicken_. Our new responsibility. Our love of our life!”

Something you don’t quite remember signing up for, watching Cayde affectionately cradle the surprisingly blasé, fluffy-feathered chicken in his arms. Huh. It’s… a start, you suppose. And it’s a cute little thing, bundled all up and comfy in the Hunter’s adoring hold. Cayde moves to pop a squat beside your lying form, petting Colonel’s head with all the reverence of a doting father.

You smile lazily, amused as you sit yourself up on your elbows. “ _You_ get to change the diapers.”

He looks mortified, tucking Colonel close to his chest. “That’s not divvying up the work fair!”

“Says the Vanguard who delegates jobs over to other people to do for him… hmm… absolutely criminal of me, shameful, _unheard_ of.”

“Hey,” he pokes. “Hold your chicken. Hold ‘em in those big, strong arms of yours. Hold ‘em and never let go.”

You don’t have any say because Cayde is already planting Colonel atop your stomach, and you’re face to face with a curiously clucking chicken. Well, he stays put anyways, tilting his smooth-feathered face this way and that and not doing anything you wouldn’t do to a capable Titan.

You look over to Cayde and he literally has his hands folded against his heart, awaiting your approval.

It takes you a moment to cave, but you do, sighing as you pet Colonel with love and care.

Having Cayde here is like letting your hair down after a long day at work. He helps you unwind, to ease that fear of having the weight of this system on your shoulders, your fingers running through the delicate softness of Colonel’s feathers. He reminisces, he makes you laugh, he does what he’s always been good at just to make sure you’re not lost to him trying to figure out this mess. He’s a joker now but you hadn’t heard what he’d spoken to Ikora and Zavala about, not when you were so busy trying to ironically destress yourself.

They all want to throw you onto Ghaul’s ship, which is understandable. Until Cayde offered the idea that _he_ should go too and be at your side, that it would be unfair for you to be doing this alone, his fellow Vanguards were both vehement and concerned, outvoting him immediately.

Because sure, he has one life, everyone might possibly die to this megalomaniac, and _he_ wouldn’t even be able to admit to you that he lo--

“You’re not getting on that ship,” Ikora had sternly finalized, but always full of empathy, understanding far beyond of truths he can only begin to know. “None of us are. She doesn’t need our guidance anymore, Cayde. She doesn’t need our protection.”

Sure, it’s the truth--not one he likes, not one that he can bear to fully grasp because he _hates_ the idea of always putting you into the line of fire. Of making you the meat shield to ensure his survival, that he can only do so much in return while you’re throwing yourself out into the wilderness to be swallowed whole. You’re a team, the shield to his gunslinger, the defender at the ready. The one who has and will die for him over and over again.

Cayde had been so adamant on your defense that the fact he’d sobered up and became serious at all caught both Ikora and Zavala off guard.

And, well, maybe a bit of himself while he’s at it, if only because of how heated he’d been that this was the last thing you deserved if your Light vanquished for good.

The next morning comes sooner than he hopes, and by the crack of daybreak he can see your ship prepared and ready for take off. The other Vanguards had given you their blessings, heartfelt and all but it’s himself he saves for last.

You’re geared up in your best, battle-worn plates and scarred armor above all. And you look lovely in that beautiful gradient of blue and orange sky, helmet tucked beneath an arm, rifle strapped to your hip and a sidearm at your thigh. He doesn’t want you to go, but he’s always had a close quarters disadvantage being this near to you, hoping that this wouldn’t be the last.

“You’re leaving,” he points out the obvious, uncharacteristically more silent than usual.

You smile to ease his nervousness. “I’m leaving.”

“Well, uh.” The golden glow of his cheeks are just perfect. “Make it back in time for dinner?”

But your laugh is even better. “That’s a tall order.”

And that reverence in his eyes returns. “Say yes. Please.”

He’s so disquieted, so anxious that you’re worried he’ll fall apart once you leave. You say yes even though it doesn’t seem to make him visibly feel any better about you flying off and disappearing from the vanishing point, even with the companionship of his new chicken.

You have to take off soon, yes, and you still have some time. If this is truly the end and neither of you can be at the other’s side, at least you can say you left this world with a promise fulfilled.

You look up at him and take a step forward, voice soft. “Cayde?”

Yes, there’s a reason why he’s always had a close quarters disadvantage with you. But there’s something wonderfully warm about the press of your lips against the flat plate of his own, your fingertips cradling his face with adoration, how careful he is not to make any sudden moves to clip you until you part away.

Out of all the emotions he’s felt so strongly that resemble the skeleton of his former lives, nothing compares to the electricity he feels waking from your touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so a quick announcement--in particular, for my ps4 players!
> 
> long story short we've got plenty of space in our clan; not all of us can raid opening day (don't have the game yet, school/job obligations, etc.) and some of our beloved clan members have ascended to the higher plane of the PC realm for D2. 
> 
> we're probably planning on raiding over the weekend (we're based CST in the US) so if any of you guys are interested in coming into the raid fresh and blind, drop a comment or message me on tumblr! we've got around 2-3 spots open. we're casual/family-friendly with the occasional bout of mild language as a fair warning. since we're all fresh to the raid be prepared for it to take a couple of hours to complete. so far a friend and i have explored the first area out of curiosity to know what to expect, but otherwise the raid is blind as can be.
> 
> if you're interested in raiding with us but don't meet the power level requirement (270, but lbr the recommended is really 280), we'd be happy to help you grind! nightfall, strikes, public events, crucible, etc.
> 
> /end my spiel/ and as always, thanks for those lovely comments and kudos! <33


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s stalling, you realize, fingers still tangled with your own. And maybe you too wish to be Jyn Erso with her Cassian Andor on the beach, holding each other in the breadth of a new horizon as the world comes to an end. But it isn’t. _You_ won’t let it.

In his defense, losing an arm _and_ a leg was definitely unnecessary, reckless, literal, and worth it.

Not because he’d finally be able to see you in the flesh again, scorched armor and smoking gun and all, but because of the look on your face. A part of him is convinced that you’re too good to be true, too good to be thrown at Gary or Gil or whatever he’s calling himself these days. There’s something surreally poetic about the glow in your eyes, wide and full of the precision and sureshot of his own gunslinger.

You’d gone to Zavala’s side first, double-checking his plating over and over despite his airy breaths that he’s okay, he’ll survive, and the fear had never been relevant now more than ever. Coming from the person whose innards were millimeters from spilling out of the threshold of your gut, Cayde almost _laughs_ at how worrisome you appear at a careless scratch dealt to your mentor.

You look to Ikora, not for help but to ensure you aren’t going to lose her either, only to be reassured by a breathless motion of her hand. She’s alright--she always is, even under pressure. Always the first to keep her cool, to have the situation under control. It’s when she averts her silent attention towards Cayde himself do the looks change.

There’s something Zavala murmurs against the distant echoes of gunshots throughout the Last City, something fitting and longing of mentor to student before Cayde’s eyes. And you’re leaving his side, reaching for his hand to press against that scorched bit of armor against his chest before crouching down to the Hunter destined to join you at the hip.

Never the worrywart. Never the one to be the centerpiece of concerned fixation, yet the look in your eyes after you pull your helmet off, surveying the fizzing stump of his missing arm and leg is breathtaking.

He tries to give you a thumbs up, the same reassurance that Zavala and Ikora had given you, but it does nothing to ease your temper.

Your hand closes around his wrist and somehow you feel bigger to him, the shield, the protector all over again. There’s mourning in your gaze at first as you look him over, the golden glow of his cheeks pulsing in silent anxiousness to your studying. There’s a reason why he misses the frontier and its the same reason why your mourning shifts to something powerful, something that makes him visibly flinch--like an incoming fist pausing an inch from his face.

The righteousness of Rezyl Azzir is there, lighting your veins ablaze; he’s terrified for a moment that you may come to pass into that darkness but you’d been chosen, enlightened by the Traveler as some tragic final hope. Honors of the Iron Lords are spoken through your actions, and for some wanting reason he feels like the Osiris to your searching Saint-14, far gone but never forgotten.

Maybe, he muses, you’ll both be spread as a legendary, gallant duo in the centuries to come.

But there won’t be any awaiting centuries of glory and gore if Ghaul’s still breathing air.

The plates on his face shift into what you recognize as mirth, both your hands coming to cradle his lone one.

“I’ve, uh,” Cayde begins, and if you’re expecting any declaration of love or lasting kiss, you know none of this would be real. “I’ve--this is _really_ like the ending of _Rogue One_ , with the--with Cassian and Jyn Erso and the flaming sun and the whole schematics to the _Death Star_ thing--”

You can’t help but burst out into a laugh. The kind with the held back tears, the tight throat--you’d never asked him who the Queen of Hearts had meant to him, but there’s a memory of her somewhere, faint and pulsing, and when he sees the shimmer in your damp eyes, that racing feeling returns.

You don’t know whether he means you’re some Leia or Luke being thrown into the fray, but you know better than anyone who he really is and has taken an admirable liking to.

“Take it easy, Han Solo,” comes your chuckle, “you’ll blow a fuse.”

“Uh. More like _you_ lit the fuse? Blowing up the generic brand superweapon? Wish I could’ve been there.”

He’s stalling, you realize, fingers still tangled with your own. And maybe you too wish to be Jyn Erso with her Cassian Andor on the beach, holding each other in the breadth of a new horizon as the world comes to an end. But it isn’t. _You_ won’t let it. 

Because you’re not some Rezyl Azzir-turned-Dredgen Yor, plagued by strange nightmares and thrown into a prophecy, turning to the corruption grafted deeper than the gunmetal of his Rose. Not another Radegast to bring everyone together under one banner, the Iron Banner, and forge what all Guardians are now. Not even the beloved Saint-14, selfless and tragic, devastated and devoted in searching for his missing friend in the dusty recesses of Mercury only to end up missing himself.

 _You’re a legend of your own_ , he fathoms, watching your fingers slip away from his hold. _The epilogue of Atheon. The ender of Crota. The slayer of Oryx. The champion of Aksis._

You’ve fought so much worse, Cayde almost feels _sorry_ for Ghaul.

Your face is gone in turn of the plate of your helmet, watching your body materialize into the glimmering nothingness of the Vex teleporter.

 

 

It’s true--you have fought so much worse.

But faithful Guardians chosen by the Traveler never die. Even through the blazing heat of a dawnblade searing against your sentinel shield, the torrent of electricity called upon and racing through the shock absorbers of your armor, death is just another waiting game of revival. 

There was no Ghost destined for Ghaul--there was no resurrection on standby. Even through immortal ascension was he denied the Light, unchained and left in pieces. Being so near to the fragments of the Traveler was experiencing the radiance like you never have, comforting, enlightening, benevolent.

You still hear Cayde’s words in the back of your mind, the moment you’d vaporized Ghaul into smoldering dust beneath a flaming punch.

“ _Great shot, kid! That was one in a million!_ ”

It makes you laugh, the breathless kind with little air left in your lungs. The Cabal had destroyed the home you cherished, surely, but there’s only one Tower on a multitude of walls. In days the temporary refugee of the Farm is now flooding with life beneath the new Tower, vendors are returning, Spicy Ramen is _back_ , Rahool is somehow still dubiously alive, and the mentors you know and love are elated to have normalcy restored to some sense of comprehension.

When Saint-14 walked into the halls of his peers after defeating the Fallen during his crusade, you have little doubt they’d cheered and hailed him a hero for ages. But you aren’t the heroic Exo saint, not the exuberant Shaxx, the paternal Zavala or the cool Saladin during their reigning centuries of battle.

It takes some time, but Cayde and his scouting skills have _some_ use when he finally finds you huddled in the deepest, emptiest, most hidden corner of the Tower possible.

Well, that and Hawthorne’s slip-up about your whereabouts, much to her regret.

Cayde’s surprised to find you out of the regalia altogether, knees drawn to your chest and looking out into the basking sunlight of the early afternoon sky. High ledges, a well-tended garden woven through the wooden awning structure, sewn rugs laid out for your own leisure--by the looks of it, you’d been planning on staying up here for a while.

You seem embarrassed to be found like this, Ghost huddled in your lap as you shut your book and set it aside as he clambers over the half-wall.

His arms-- _arms_ , he has both arms and both legs back, thank goodness--splay out in a teasing taunt.

“What?” he begins innocently. “Too good to come down to your own celebration? They’ve got a _cake_ with your name on it, y’know. Chocolate. Probably vegan. Or maybe they say it’s vegan but it isn’t? Frosting’s on the sugar rush side, we might need you down there to stop any sugar high Guardians from jumping off the Tower.”

His footsteps come closer, and--really, he can’t help but _admire_ how good you look in casual clothes, just like any other civilian out in the Last City. Nothing about facing the Darkness yet--nothing about worries or woes to whisk you away to don the armor back on. For a second he misses the mark hanging around your hips, amused when you try to reach down instinctively to move it from catching between your legs.

“You know they’re naming a butt towel after you, right? Why come _I_ don’t get things named after me?”

Scooching over for him, he lazily throws himself down at your side with a content sigh.

“Whatever they’re naming after you are probably things _they_ shouldn’t do,” you muse, none the wiser when he shoots you an offended look. “How’s the cake?”

“Delish. Heard Shaxx was in charge of the kitchen. Ended up making half the staff cry ‘cause he was yellin’ about--” His fingers come up to quote. “ _Heavy ammo available._ But! I took the part with your name on it.”

“…Isn’t that like, the whole cake?”

“Uh, what part of _I took the part with your name on it_ didn’t you get?”

“That’s fair.” 

“Well, actually I did the thing where you cut a slice from _inside_ the cake and--”

Honestly, Ikora must be _fuming_ about how stupid that cake must look right now. All that’s left is probably just a perimeter of chocolate sliced away by a roguish hunter’s blade long gone and hidden away.

“I _just_ got you back and people are probably lining up to kill you right now, Cayde.”

He doesn’t appear bothered even for a second at the mention of his popularity, leaning into your shoulder. “But you’ll be there to stop them, right?”

“Have I never?”

He says nothing more on that, unaware of his smile as he rests a forearm atop his bent knee. In the white noise of the murmurs below it feels like the days of shucking off his Vanguard duties for a moment and you away from the wall, indulging in the silence and poker and laughs.

A turn of his head and he sees those wondering eyes, gentle and tired and recharging most of all. And he couldn’t ask for more to finally see you at peace--not for long, he’s painfully reminded, but momentary all the same.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” he quietly reminds against the tide of serene solitude, this safe little haven, this quiet corner of peace you’ve claimed for yourself.

“Which one?” you tease back. “You should probably work on not making everything _sound_ like a question. Or at least _questionable_.”

“Why aren’t you down there? Some folks are lookin’ for you.”

Your chin perches against a knee with a weary sigh. “Hail the hero. You know what happened the _last_ time we went around parading, right?”

“I am in one-hundred percent agreement there. So. Party. You and me? The gallant duo?”

“Maybe they’ll make a matching cape to go with my honorable mark,” you wonder. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well,” he mulls it over, rubbing his chin, “I was thinkin’ we could just sit down and binge the entire War of Stars series until one of us collapses to exhaustion. First one to be resurrected loses.”

“ _Star Wars_ ,” you correct him politely. “And seriously? You’re such a sucker for Solo.”

“What?” he questions in his defense. “Roguish, good-looking, clever, witty, a hit with the ladies--”

“--with _Leia_.”

Yes, it’s then does he realize his questions do have answers. And he corrects himself slowly, surely, “With _Leia_. Did they… they’ve kissed, right?”

“Seven times,” you answer, almost dreamily. “And four with Luke. But that’s a whole different story.”

Well, Cayde _hopes_ there aren’t any Lukes around, and there certainly hasn’t been enough times to be seven for him, but he’s holding out his metaphorical heart and pride out for it to be someday true. Even as an Exo there’s still nervous ticks about him no matter how he tries to smooth it over with cool humor, a cool exterior--clearing his throat ends up getting your attention, not his courage.

He takes that one giant leap of faith, warm against your side. “Well, one down, six more to go, right?”

Your mouth moves at first to shoot back something snarky, volleying back at his typical jest until your eyes widen at the epiphany of his question.

There is no resistance when he leans forward, mindful of his beautiful, _beautiful_ horn. And though he has no pliable lips, no softness to the grooves and planes of his face, his actions are inspiringly reminiscing and _human_. For once he even feels clumsy hearing the soft hitch of your breath, the closing of his eyes, gloved palm reaching up to cup your jaw to tilt your face in adoration to this second-- _yes_ , second liplock.

His mind races when the touch of your fingertips slide against his shoulders, leaning into his body as you finally let out a breathless, shy laugh against the side of his neck.

“Five more,” you murmur. “I’m holding you to it.”

There’s comforting silence for a beat when he pauses, relishing in the tranquility of just being with one another again, before he sneakily quotes, “ _I know_.”

To be fair, he completely _deserves_ the punch you deliver to his chest at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first and foremost--thank you so, _so_ much for the overwhelming support. i honestly did NOT expect this many of you to be enjoying this as much as i'm having a blast writing it. you're all so patient and kind and AMAZING with the kudos and feedback on this, i'm just so fidjsafjiaofas!! ;_;
> 
> huge shoutout to **@beautifulgirlmachine** and her buddy as our latest clan recruits. we'll be on our way to raiding shortly! clan is still open to newcomers, and my last offer still stands for grinding nightfalls and light levels. also if you're experiencing problems in the forums or LFGs (like impatient raiders and fireteam leaders), definitely check out **@breezeinmonochromenight** for any of your sherpa needs! they're honestly the best kind of people to learn raids and any higher level activity with.  <33
> 
> also i have no idea how this chapter got this long and tbh i wouldn't have expectations for the rest of them to be around this length but HAVE IT ANYWAYS as thanks of course <33


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’d hung up your suit of armor long ago, but it was only a matter of time until this moment, Cayde grieves. The time to dust it off and don it back on, to holster your weapons of choice and return back to the saddle you were destined--or doomed--for.

To be fair, you’re not Exo enough to win a _don’t die from fatigue_ challenge issued by the legendary Cayde-6.

Halfway through _Revenge of the Sith_ you find your cheek sore and pressed against the shoulder of Cayde, whom is munching and shuffling another handful of popcorn into his mouth. You’re hardly aware of the obedient, loyal companion secured in your boneless arms, clucking softly and nuzzling deeper into the crook of your elbow as the soft glow of the monitor illuminates the room in murmuring cyan-green excitement.

A bit of popcorn tumbles out of the crevice of his cheek and onto your head, Cayde half-aware of it as he reaches over blindly and feeds it to your so-called _child_.

Drowsy eyes and murmuring through your sleep, you mumble to Cayde, “He likes the kernels.”

Given he’s only paying _half_ -attention, he’s hearing and not _listening_. “I do like Colonel, it’s true.”

“ _No_ , Cayde, the--”

He hurriedly interrupts you with a skittering shush as Obi-Wan and Anakin swing wildly at one another with sabers humming and screeching ablaze, and the impression is not lost on the Exo at all.

“ _Man_ , where can I get one of those?!” He gawks. “This is like set in _our_ time and we still don’t have these around? Can you imagine how crazy one of these things would be in the Crucible? Corner camping by the power ammo and--”

With a barely stifled yawn he continues to rave about his newfound fixation, and you run a hand against Colonel’s feathery side in amusement. “I’ll run it by Banshee for your birthday, how about that?”

“Yeah, if he even remembers,” Cayde moodily sulks. “Like I can even recall what I had for _lunch_...”

 _You_ do though--the front half of your name from the cake he’d so eloquently stored in _your_ fridge in _your_ apartment situated in Mid-Town. You’re sure Ikora is putting together a search party beneath her Hidden for the whereabouts of the culprit, though you’re sure even she must know by now who it could otherwise be. And if Cayde is suddenly saddled with a mountain of Vanguard paperwork in the near future, you’ll know exactly who _that_ could otherwise be, too.

Your train of thought suddenly derails into sobering waters when the sound of a saber slices through soon-to-be Darth Vader--though you hope not to spoil it for the bated Exo beside you--and Cayde’s stifled gasp cuts the air between you clean through like a superheated Kyber crystal-fueled blade.

Suddenly wide awake from your lethargic state and flushed with worry at the Exo’s arm in your current grasp, you feel his body sing with tension.

Cayde is taut, fingers drawn and clenching into his palms even when the mangled body of Anakin Skywalker is discovered by his fellow Sith Lord. Not even a whirring gear in his body moves when the disgraced Jedi is poked, prodded, reliving the pain that’s scorched his skin, and you don’t realize the death grip of your own fingers against Cayde’s arm until the faded leather of his sleeve groans helplessly under your strength.

The acute hiss that ultimately completes Darth Vader is startlingly pierce. And though you’re well aware that a _hold your breath_ contest would be utterly pointless against Cayde, he’s doing a damn good job at keeping one in and careening on the edge of his seat at the revelation of the chronology.

Needless to say, between consoling Cayde and the curiously clucking Colonel in your embrace, it’s a proven fact that Exos do _not_ shed tears of motor oil. Somehow it takes the effort of you, both your Ghosts, and finally Colonel himself to ultimately soothe Cayde's melodrama into _manageable_ melodrama, with you consoling him that _it’s okay, I was crying, too_ and him wailing out _it’s not FAIR, Anakin Skywalker deserved better!_

You’re about to protest that Han Solo did too, considering his own son had his saber plunged through the infamous outlaw, then shut your mouth upon realizing that Cayde has no idea about the fate of his stellar role model.

The title card fanfares loudly on the next movie: it’s finally _The Force Awakens_.

 

 

2.25 hours later, and Cayde _wishes_ he could spew projectile motor oil from his beaming cyan bulbs. Preferably onto your butt towel if he could.

You literally had to drag the Hunter Vanguard by the cloak from your apartment to Spicy Ramen--your treat, considering he had to witness his galactic man-crush slain before his very eyes with no chance of resurrection. His sadness seems to conveniently dissipate the moment a steaming bowl of broth, noodles, and sliced, braised pork belly are placed in front of him, and he digs in with little abandon to his short-lived grief.

… _And_ having fewer thoughts about your side of the counter, guarding your bowl a little to the right when his broth splatters unceremoniously on the worn surface.

Any other day and you’d be joining him and his face-stuffing--at least when _he_ does it, it looks acceptably attractive and very much so a double standard. But ever since that freefall from the Tower your guts haven’t exactly been on agreeable terms with your appetite, so you commence your socially acceptable pace as Cayde chows down on half his bowl within the first minute.

You don’t know whether it’s the battle fatigue, the nostalgia, or that it’s been so long since either of you have had a decent bite of your favorite quality food in the past months, but something about being seated together again, elbow-to-elbow at Spicy Ramen’s counter in the cool late evening is comfortingly calm. The warmth and steam flowing from the boiling water, the chef’s rhythmic chopping of vegetables against the cutting board, the sizzle of meat on the grill seems to calm your abrasive nerves as much as the ramen itself.

An invasive chopstick prods into your ramen bowl, and with a swat of your hand you nearly clock Cayde in the face as the fish cake plops helplessly back into the steaming broth.

And it’s back to that familiar domesticity all over again, with him badgering you mercilessly, and you nearly pulverizing his circuitry in half because you have no control over the crushing force you exert. You laugh when he brings up another one of those stories about him and his bet with Shiro that he still needs to collect. That other time he’d harassed everyone on the Tower over the intercom about his supposedly “stolen” sparrow, much to his embarrassment at finding it behind him. A mutual curiosity shared when you both wonder where Eris Morn could have wandered off to in the galaxy, and why she hasn’t reported back into the Vanguard yet.

You’re about to mention your dwelling fears to Cayde about something lurking in the methane waters of Titan when you’re interrupted by a hesitant message being relayed through Ghost, who’s hovering above your shoulder.

All thoughts of prolonged peace and hours of binge-watching together seem abandoned when Cayde watches your expression harden at the sound of Ikora’s voice, whose message is far from good news. And it’s there does Cayde internally cry that _no, it’s too soon already_ that you’re being ripped from the peace you deserve, that your legend shouldn’t have to disappear and die like so many other heroes before you all.

A part of him wishes that Ikora’s message is nothing but a mistake, something to be pondered upon later, but even the sagging expression of your Ghost is enough to convince him.

And just like that, your evening of rest and solitude is only ever temporary, biting your lip in startling worry above all despite the fatigued circles beneath your eyes. He knows you haven’t been sleeping well, knows you still dream deeply of that cutting wind through your plating. You’d hung up your suit of armor long ago, but it was only a matter of time until this moment, Cayde grieves. The time to dust it off and don it back on, to holster your weapons of choice and return back to the saddle you were destined--or doomed--for.

It always seemed to fit you better, he wryly muses, elbow-to-elbow still. Always connected to you, to be there to ground you back to earth despite how little he wants you to take that step forward. You’re not alone this time, and you’re more than just a mere meat shield for him and his fellow Vanguards now.

Every Guardian who knows the tale by heart remembers Saint-14 had gone missing in his search for the former Warlock Vanguard, whose bittersweet exile stemming from ideological differences forced his leave for good. And through your voracious digging on the Vex on Nessus, you’d had your suspicions that the exalted Warlock himself was far from ashes and dust on Mercury.

Maybe, you wonder, if by finding _him_ , you’ll find your drifting mentor as well, and that thought alone is enough to physically unsettle you.

“Osiris…” 

You say his name like it had ever really been taboo, unheard of through the talks of Vanguard legend and existing only through the elusive art of Guardian gossip.

Your hands wring together out of trepidation, lips dry, and Cayde can’t help but sink at the thought of you already leaving.

“Osiris is still here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~the royal beasts grow restless... WIPEWIPEWIPE~~
> 
>  
> 
> semester is almost closing out! here's something for your palette while we await the return of our favorite warlock next week.
> 
> and as always, thank you so much for your patience and those lovely kudos/comments. i'll get back to them as soon as i can! <33
> 
> p.s. do i have any r6s players/admirers here? if so, expect some fanfics on them soon. ;)


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He must’ve been something,” he says in a whimsy, thoughtful voice after a long moment, and though you hear the smile in his words it’s not one of hurt or jealousy or accusation, but something that's even softer. Admiration. _Understanding_. “Wasn’t he? Tell me about him.”

Considering _he’s_ the Hunter between you the two of you, Cayde finds it rather difficult to keep in stride with your pounding footsteps down the armory of the Tower.

Which, by all means, has always been a quality he’d found admiringly attractive: you, heaving padded, sizeable armor that might as well rival him in _weight_. And yet he’s terrified _as hell_ when witnessing you charging him full-force like some bloodthirsty bull in said armor, electric shocks carving your path in its wake in order to pulverize him into the dirt.

Sure, he’s always going to strive for his team as always, but you’ve always had him by the neck of his cloak, and he’s always had you like some bull by the horns. 

This time, however, it seems you’re fully prepared to buck him off your back for good, despite the fact that his grip is slipping from your persistent denial.

“I’m _going_ ,” you emphasize in exasperation for what must be the umpteenth time. All your weapons and tools of the trade are in check, slamming your locker closed. “You even _signed_ off on the papers to give this mission the green light.”

“Yeah, because Ikora was going to _devour my soul_ if I hadn’t!”

Which would be something to witness for sure--a simple slap of the wrist and he’d be a panicked mess on the floor, gasping for breath while the tenacious Warlock Vanguard loomed above his corpse with folded palms. As amusing as that would be--Zavala sighing into his palm with insurmountable defeat, Shaxx shivering across the Tower because of the _last_ encounter he’d had with Ikora during the Crucible--you understood Ikora’s drive better than most.

She’d lost her mentor to the clashes of policies with little more than wind or word of his departure, just as your beloved Exo mentor had vanished into the glittering nothingness of the starlit sky. But at least for her, Osiris’ fraying and elusive survival has trails to follow, and hopefully Saint-14 had found a similar, if not simpler way. 

If Osiris can be found, contacted, then Saint-14 may not be a far cry further.

But you know why the fuming, furiously chuttering Exo beside you is worried, speaking more loudly with his hands than the rapidly hushed whispers of his voice on the twenty reasons why you’re not allowed to step foot off this Tower and out of his sight. He gets as far as the thirteenth reason--something about neglecting your child, and that he’d threaten to call in Shaxx as a poor substitute in your dress--before you decide to reach over to his chin and snap his jaw closed for good.

One action leads to another, much to his surprise, and It’s an instantaneous chain of reactions: him, frozen on counting off his fingers, and you pulling his hands down to firmly kiss him.

In his racing mind, he realizes his initial spike of annoyance on your actions has merit, and he’s glad that it’s a double-edge safety that both gets him effectively to shut up, and for you to kiss him without snapping down on your lip. Your hold on his wrists are firm, pushed against his chest where you’d been allowed to take a step forward, but it also keeps him securely in place. 

He can’t walk away from this--not that the thought would ever cross his mind, sighing with newfound elation that your warmth and softness is only another reminder of you leaving again.

Something about it this time is harder, more urgent, _distressed_. Desperate, even, contrary to your first sweet pecks and careful touches. With treading gentleness he tests his hands from your grip, and your palms falls away in favor of his chest, tense body deflating when his fingers cup your jaw in comforting adoration.

You’re standing on the toes of your boots, and his cheeks are glowing a brilliant gold.

To his dismay you pull apart after what feels like few passing moments, and you don’t miss the fact that he’d tried to lean forward even after you’d gone to pull away, following your lips with little abandon until he fathomed himself.

Now that you have his full and undivided attention, that normative softness returns. But it’s not like he had seen you before, so ready to throw yourself into no man’s land with the determination of unsung legends. No, it’s not the same this time at all, and that sobering worry is relentless than ever. There’s a lingering woe in the back of your eyes as you study the hard lines that make up his face, and he knows it’s not him that’s the cause of it.

“You know what this means to me.” You break the silence, mind heavy. The unsaid _what **he** meant to me._ You try not to linger on the unsaid, heart racing, and make up your mind, as if he had any other choice. “I have to go tomorrow. For Ikora too. You know what the Vex are capable of.”

And though you want it to remain unsaid, Cayde has the uncanny ability to _not_ wish it so. 

“He must’ve been something,” he says in a whimsy, thoughtful voice after a long moment, and though you hear the smile in his words it’s not one of hurt or jealousy or accusation, but something that's even softer. Admiration. _Understanding_. “Wasn’t he? Tell me about him.”

And though your cheeks are hot beneath his palms, you can’t help but smile back. “Maybe after you tell me about the Queen of Hearts.”

You expect him to be offended at the jibe, truthfully, but he only laughs aloud. “I wish I could, but I _told_ you--has _your_ reset button been mashed five times over a couple centuries?”

“Humans don’t have reset buttons, Cayde.”

“I’m starting to wish you guys did, honestly, it’d do me a favor at times--”

It’s the last time he’s ever going to comment on that after you heroically smash your forehead against his faceplate.

 

 

“Hey, what’s up?”

You glance over at the dozing Colonel at your side before returning to your book on loan from Zavala, turning a page as Cayde’s footsteps approach you from behind. With the last surprise he had, it better not be _another_ chicken. “Nice try, cowboy, Chicken Butt’s on naptime.”

“Try something just a _little_ cuter.”

You’re about to answer back that few things in this solar system are, but he stops just short behind you to garner your attention. As you move to crane and look over your shoulder, he’s suddenly at your back and tangling himself in your pillows and blankets just to perch his chin on your shoulder, firm chest to your back and circled arms around you. It’s the same spot you’d coveted upon your victory party, and still in much use.

Cozy, you lean back and welcome the gesture as you remain undisturbed from your reading, pondering on what surprise he’s got this time.

“What could be cuter than Colonel?” you ask, flipping a page. “Aside from _fried_ Colonel…”

You can physically feel the horror and disgust radiating off of him in droves. “Oh, _geez_ , we’ve _had_ this conversation before, kid.” 

The snoozing chicken remains unbothered and peaceful at your side, knowing you could turn it into a fried meal with just a single flaming hammer.

You won’t, of course.

“Then I’ve got nothing.”

“Then close your eyes.”

Even though the words come out of his mouth he’s still reaching over and dog-earing your spot before shutting it closed, much to your objection. He sets it aside and your vision fills with a gloved palm, feeling defeated with every passing moment as Cayde tries every measure to ensure you’re listening to his command.

“ _Cayde_ , what--”

“Are they closed?”

“I can’t see _shit_.”

“I’m really glad you can’t, but you’re not telling me they are.”

You squeeze them as tightly closed as you can just to prove your point and appease him. “ _Yes!_ ” you cry out in indignation, “Now can you _please_ tell me--”

Your hands are being manipulated by the Hunter Vanguard much to your protests (“ _Cayde, I’m not some **figma** , what the hell?_”) and chagrin, though inwardly you’re a muddled mess at the thought of his touch, fingers goading yours to grip and hold something away from your body in an ages-old action of your kind.

His hands are still clasped onto yours like you’re some _beginner_ , but it’s his voice at your ear that does you in. “Alright, open ‘em.”

And they generously widen when you notice that trademark sport of monochrome gripped in your palms, and the signature white spade says it all.

_Ace of damned Spades._

He’s never let this piece leave his hip and holster unless it was by his own hands, and you’d always been sure you would be one of the many he wouldn’t allow, best friend or not.

“I’d say it fits like a glove, Guardian. Sturdy grip, reliable in a punch, killer firefly rounds that I lifted from the Tower armory contraband…” 

(“ _...Don’t tell Shaxx that_ ,” he adds as an aside.)

“Keep her safe for me, would you?”

Oh, yes, it’s all dawning on you faster than you can form the words. “I-- _Cayde_ \--I can’t--”

“Did you think I was gonna let you keep it? Tex Mechanica would have a fit if I lost this baby. No, no, think of it more as… as _credit_ , Guardian.”

To give you a reason to come back alive to him more or less, you muse. With untold centuries of practiced precision you use your fingers to carefully manipulate the swing out cylinder with all the gait and muster of a spaghetti western, watching it spin in satisfaction.

In a way he’ll be there with you when you take the fight to the Vex, and with renewed vigor you snap the cylinder soundly shut with a click.

“I’ll give ‘em hell,” you promise.

And he knows you can sense his smile.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last one before the DLC drops! everything onwards will be curse of osiris and future dlc/events, so be wary of spoilers, friends.
> 
> @ bungie y'all gotta bring back some killer exotic hand cannons... come on bruh...
> 
> also i see some of you have dropped by to say hello on tumblr! <33 any of y'all wanna stop by feel free :^) i'll be at infra-dead.tumblr.com
> 
> season 1's coming to an end, duderz. how did you guys fare during it? i know i have a few words to say on the armor drop rates in iron banner LOL.


End file.
